


Sixteen Days Ago

by take_ninetynine



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Drug Addiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-25
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-02-18 18:46:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2358398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/take_ninetynine/pseuds/take_ninetynine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s not the feelings from the dilaudid that I’m afraid of. It’s not even the feelings after, the sweating or the tremors or the restlessness or the irritability that doesn't feel like me. It’s when the pain comes back, because the only thing easier than doing it is doing it again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sixteen Days Ago

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the first thing I've ever posted to this site and possibly the first fanfic I've ever finished. It's not very long, just a brief scene, but it was something I really wanted to write. Hope everyone enjoys.

_“She never even made it off the table.”_

Those words had hit me like a punch in the gut, and even though the events of the rest of that day have become a blur to me now, those words still ring crystal clear in my mind.

Emily Prentiss died sixteen days ago. I went to her funeral, carried her coffin, watched solemnly as they lowered her body into the ground. But it hit me the hardest the first time I walked into the conference room and Garcia started briefing us without her. I felt her absence so strongly during that first case, I don’t know how I focused on my job. I still see her in the office, every time I walk past that wall with the portraits of those who have died in service. I think it might be easier if I didn’t.

It still almost doesn’t feel real, except for the agony I’m feeling that I can’t get rid of. I don’t remember anything ever hurting this much.

I remember walking by Garcia’s office eighteen days ago, when Emily was missing and we were searching frantically to find her before Doyle did. I approached her door to knock before I registered that she was on the phone, and was about to walk away, until I realized who she was calling. _“Hey, it’s me. Hotch asked me to try all your numbers, and I have this as an old listing and you probably don’t even use it anymore but if it is you, and you’re out there… come home. Please.”_ Garcia’s sentiment echoed everything I couldn’t put into words, the fear that we all felt for her. I hoped so much that we would find her in time… but we didn’t. Morgan was the one to find her, a wooden beam sticking out from her body. The medics came, rushed her to the hospital, but she never even made it off the table.

The cravings started four days ago. I hadn’t had one in a while, but it almost makes sense to me that I’m experiencing it now. I will myself not to think about it, but it’s hard. God, is it hard. But I’ve been clean for three years, nine months, and thirteen days. My first taste of dilaudid—or dihydromorphinone, as it's called in scientific circles—wasn't my choice, but it certainly was every time after. It was so much easier to say yes than to say no. _“_ _Tell me it doesn't make it better. _”_  _Tobias Hankel, the part of him that was still Tobias, had been trying to help in his own way four years, one month, eighteen days ago. I try to tell myself that even though it was still part of Tobias Hankel that had caused me the pain in the first place. I tell myself that so I don't have to blame myself for the addiction.

Morgan keeps saying that Emily wouldn’t want us to sulk, Emily wouldn’t want us to let our jobs slide. Emily probably wouldn’t want me to fall off the wagon. But I almost can’t help it. I want to shout into the air that it doesn’t matter what Emily wants, Emily doesn’t want anything because she’s _dead_. I stare across the room at my sofa, where three years, nine months, fourteen days ago I had passed out from the dilaudid with the needle still in my hand. I think about how easily I could get more if I wanted to. For a minute I think I want to.

It’s amazing how much more emotional pain can hurt than physical pain. Five months, twenty-seven days ago I started having headaches. One year, six months ago I was shot in the leg. One year, ten months, ten days ago I contracted a deadly strain of anthrax and went into respiratory distress. On those occasions I was able to get by without the narcotics—even though it was repeatedly offered and practically insisted upon in the latter case. But I refused them. I had to stay clean. My job, my relationships, my life had been called into question thanks to four months, three days of giving in to the addiction. I didn’t want to go down that path again because of medical issues or occupational hazards.

So then why am I struggling so much tonight?

Rossi told me to try to remember the good things about when she was alive—the way she smiled, the sound of her laugh, the fun we had together during the four years, three months, fifteen days that we worked together. But that was about as helpful as walking past her photograph every day. Constant reminders of what we had lost. Two nights ago I caught myself thinking about some of the more horrible things we faced together—the religious compound two years, four months, twenty-six days ago, where she revealed her cover and took a beating so I wouldn’t have to, was the worst—and I almost gave in. But… Emily wouldn’t want me to give in.

It’s not the feelings from the dilaudid that I’m afraid of. It’s not even the feelings after, the sweating or the tremors or the restlessness or the irritability that doesn't feel like me. It’s when the pain comes back, because the only thing easier than doing it is doing it again. I want to—but I can’t. But I could—but…. In frustration I kick the sofa and sink to the floor, cradling my face in my hands. “I miss you, Emily,” I say quietly to myself as the tears begin to fall; saying it out loud makes it feel more real, but it doesn’t solve anything.

It would be so easy to do it….

No. I have to be stronger than that. People rely on us every day to keep them safe, to protect them from the monsters, and I can’t do that if I give in to my own monsters.

I get up and I make my way towards the door. I’ll go to JJ’s. She’ll know what to say.


End file.
